


Shattered Glass Hearts

by white_blank_page



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, brief reference to drug paraphanalia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-24 07:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2573552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/white_blank_page/pseuds/white_blank_page
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has felt like he’s been losing himself for quite awhile now-- been set adrift on the wide blue sea and told to fend for himself, and Mary couldn’t help, was sick of his vague personal crisis--so he returned to Sherlock, to his foundations. But now it seemed that even this had been ruined….and he had no one to blame but himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shattered Glass Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> So, this looks like it'll stay a one-shot. Although, I did originally envision a longer, more complex plot... one day, maybe some more will be added. We shall see:)

The cursor blinks. The page--the infuriatingly white page--imprints itself on his retinas, travels down his optic nerve, roars its whiteness through the circuitry of his brain. The cursor blinks, and John Watson feels the writer’s block settle quickly and firmly into place. He stares into the empty blankness and the cold fingers of despair begin to pull at his seams.  
He’s not even a professional writer, damn it. This shouldn’t be so hard. He doesn’t use fancy words or language; his subject matter has already been predetermined. All he has to do it translate it from the format of detailed, highly instinctual (and emotional) memories to that of the compressed, black-and-white text his readers seem so fond of. Simple.   
Except that this time, it’s not, and he has no idea why. It shouldn’t be any different than any of the other entries he’s written.   
The cursor blinks, and John watches it mock him with growing frustration.   
You know why it’s different this time, of course you do. How could you not? It says, tapped out in an imagined morse code of blinks that sends his brain lurching back before he has the power, the self-control to stop it.  
*********  
“John?” He was surprised, pleasantly so. John could hear it in his voice. Strange, isn’t it, that he knows so much from just one syllable of Sherlock’s voice, but when Mary talks he finds himself so utterly lost.   
“Hey, Sherlock. Uhm, ...Mary and I had a bit of a…That is to say, do you think I could, uh, spend the night? Just the one?”  
And then there was a pause, an awkward beat that was entirely new, and for a second John thought he would be sent away.  
“.....just the one.” It was reluctant, his voice. John couldn’t fathom why. Had he become so used to life on his own already?  
John marched through the door, shoulders squared despite his growing sense of unease as that new awkwardness unfurled in his wake like a thick fog blown in on a breeze. He could feel it settling around him, blanketing the flat in unpleasant feelings and unsaid words.   
He wished he could confront it; shoot it or scream at it or hit it--anything to make it go away. He just wanted to return to the way things used to be. John has felt like he’s been losing himself for quite awhile now-- been set adrift on the wide blue sea and told to fend for himself, and Mary couldn’t help, was sick of his vague personal crisis--so he returned to Sherlock, to his foundations. But now it seemed that even this had been ruined….and he had no one to blame but himself.   
**********

6 Months Earlier

John heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. They paused outside his door. The handle jiggled and swung free and a dark headed shape tumbled in, devoid of its normal grace. John took a moment to thank the gods that be that he was just sitting on his bed, reading.  
“Hey, you. Ever heard of knocking?”   
“John,” Sherlock slurred. That’s when John noticed the wine bottle clutched in his left hand. Expensive, and almost empty.   
“Sherlock, did you drink all of that?”   
Sherlock blinked.   
“Brilliant deduction, John. Knew there was a reason I kept you.”  
“Kept me?” John asked bemusedly.   
“Mmmmhhhmmmm. You followed me home. And I kept you.” He gained a sudden intensity, leaning down into John’s space, his eyes alight with something John did not recognise. “D’you see, John? I kept you.” He was trying to communicate something, searching John’s face desperately for the signal that his message has been received. John, of course, was totally lost.   
“Sorry, Sherlock, you’re going to have to be a bit more specific.”   
“Bloody hell. I’m drunk. This is nearly half my normal processing speed. Can’t you keep up yet? Can’t you see?....Don’t you...don’t you understand?”   
“Perhaps you’ll have to take it extra slow for me,” John said, patting the space beside him on the bed. Sherlock tumbled down onto it, very nearly hitting John with the wine bottle.   
“I don’t know where to start, John.” Sherlock said, rubbing his face. And he sounded so lost, so small. John put a hand on his shoulder.   
“Why don’t we start at the beginning. Why’d you get drunk? You hate it.”  
Sherlock, of course, was somewhere else entirely.   
“You don’t have to, y’know,” he said in the same small voice, playing with a loose thread on John’s bedspread and avoiding his eyes.  
“I don’t have to what? Listen to you?” John asked, trying for a laugh. Anything to chase that lost look off his friend’s face.   
“Get married,” Sherlock said quietly, still avoiding eye contact.   
John shifted uncomfortably. His hand fell from it’s comforting perch.  
“I’m not leaving you, you know,” he said, and now he is the one avoiding eye contact. “I’ll drop by every day to check up on you. Can’t have you starving to death just because I’ve got hitched.” He smiled, but Sherlock made a sound of annoyance.   
“You still don’t see, do you?” he asked, genuine anger coloring his drink-sodden voice. “After..after everything? God, you are blind, John Watson.”   
John knitted his eyebrows together in confusion.   
“What is it that I’m not seeing?”  
Sherlock grumbled to himself, muttering something along the lines of “only one thing more obvious than what I’ve already done…”.   
Mind made up, Sherlock twisted. He cupped John’s face and pulled him in, kissing him with alcohol flavored breath and desperation written in every line of his body.   
John kissed back.   
Ultimately, that is the most surprising thing about the evening. John had known he was special--at least in Sherlock’s estimation-- ever since the pool. He just hadn’t known how special. No, the most surprising part was his reaction--the way his fingers had tangled in dark hair, how alive he had felt. Each touch was like a jolt of electricity--sparks in the otherwise black night of his existence. It was surprising, and terrifying, and wrong. He was getting married in the morning. And here he was, kissing his best man. Kissing Sherlock. Sherlock, who left for three years, and now he thinks he can come home and just--  
John pulled back, gasping for air. Sherlock drunkenly tried to follow his lips, but John pushed him away.   
“No, Sherlock,” he said, and his voice was rough, grating--noise where there should have been silence.   
The effect was immediate. Sherlock froze, his back ramrod straight. John could see his walls siding back into place, locking all that was Sherlock Holmes behind their impenetrable might.  
“Of course. I’m--sorry for interrupting you,” he said, his voice so cold it burned.   
And then he was gone.   
*********

And now, here John was, in their--in Sherlock’s flat, feeling awkwardness unspooling behind him and wishing he could do something, anything to make it better.   
The worst was that, while he was sure he knew the reason for the ugly silence and the feelings of resentment he could feel washing off of Sherlock in waves, he had no idea why they were present now. Sherlock had pretended as if nothing had happened; he’d had John help out on cases ever since the wedding and nothing of this sort had arisen before. John was sure that, despite not talking about it, they had moved past this. He was at a loss to explain why anything was wrong, which meant that he had no idea how to go about fixing it.   
It turns out, however, that John wouldn’t even get around to trying to fix it. Because just then he moved into the living room. And on the table he saw a lighter, a spoon, a small medical looking bottle, and a syringe. A full syringe.   
He swallowed. Blinked. Blinked, again (they were still there).   
“Roll up your sleeve,” he ordered, still staring at the drug paraphernalia on the table.   
“No.”   
Suddenly, John had Sherlock pinned to the nearest wall.   
“I said, roll up your fucking sleeve,” he breathed. This time, Sherlock complied. He held John’s gaze the whole time, a slow, burning rage glittering in his eyes.   
John examined the arm before him. It was, miraculously, free of track marks.   
Sherlock jerked said arm out of John’s grip and stalked away.  
“The amount of faith you have in me, Dr. Watson, is truly inspiring,” Sherlock threw over his shoulder, the words dripping with sarcasm.   
“But...what is that, then?” John asked, gesturing towards the table.  
“If you must know, it’s for a case,” Sherlock said.   
John wanted to rage. He wanted to say, like hell. He wanted to comment on Sherlock’s critically low weight--how many pounds had he lost in the past few months? Heck, he looked like a walking skeleton. But, luckily for John, he held his tongue.   
Because, if he had said anything, he would have missed Sherlocks whispered “However, at the rate things are going...”.   
With those barely audible words, John felt his world once again turning on its head.  
“Sherlock…” John’s voice was raspy. He cleared his throat. “I…” John felt as though he had been blindfolded before and that those words had stripped the offensive cloth from his eyes, allowing him to fully see his friend. And what he saw was someone going through hell. Sherlock was skinny, with hollow eyes, dull hair, and pasty skin. Even his trademark energy was waning.   
How long has this been going on for? What happened to him?, John wondered. However, the question the kept bouncing around his skull, the one that would not go away, was How did I miss this?  
“Sherlock, I’m going to make us dinner, and you are going to eat some. Then we’re gonna have a nice, long chat, okay?” John didn’t wait for permission, wandering into the kitchen to scavenge for whatever edible scraps he could find.   
Sherlock was hurting badly, and John was going to fix him, if he had to move back in for all of eternity.   
It wasn’t until several hours later that John realized he needed fixing as well, and that Sherlock--the bastard--had fixed him within minutes of walking in the door. John had felt so purposeless for the past six months, so unsure even of who he was. But this wonderful, train-wreck of a man had given him a purpose again, had grounded and healed him. For the first time in months, John felt like himself again.   
As they stayed up into the wee hours of the morning, deep in conversation, a second realization slapped John in the face. He and Sherlock heal each other. It’s what they do--keep the other’s craziness in check.  
Two shattered-glass hearts who somehow found their perfect compliment in the vastness of the void.   
“Sherlock,” John broke in, “Sherlock, I followed you home. I followed you home, and you kept me.”   
Sherlock stared at John in silence.  
“I’m sorry I didn’t stay,” John whispered.  
Sherlock smiled, a soft, slow smile unlike any John had seen before.   
“But you came back,” he answered.  
“I’ll always come back. Always.”


End file.
